"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug—shading her face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. "Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all—your altered manner—everything? Why did you grant me this interview?"
"Perhaps because"—still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as early frost—"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be happy till you got it.'"
She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is no heart in it.
"You think I arranged it?"
"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?" says she, "well, say it!"
"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at his heart.
"Why not—would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting throughout.
"You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?"
"Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet—yes; to get a thing over is to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have come to the conclusion——"
"For yourself!"